


raske seis (beaten breath)

by Mikey_The_Unicorn



Series: the great escape [2]
Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Angst, Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pain, Self-Harm, okay this got really dark, sort of, uh i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikey_The_Unicorn/pseuds/Mikey_The_Unicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>White lines. Power lines. Power lines lead to power chords. Chords lead to song. And song.</p><p>Song leads to heartbreak.</p><p>[Who were they. Tell me. Tell me. I’ll find them. I’ll find them and I’ll fucking kill them.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	raske seis (beaten breath)

**Author's Note:**

> okay just a warning this gets dark as all fucks so this is your warning:
> 
> it contains references to hate crime, drug use, and a lot, a lot of violence.
> 
> half of the title is seis by mick pedaja
> 
> anyway if extreme angst and pain is your thing then well enjoy

[ _It’s okay. It’s okay._ ]

But it’s not. He knows this. Knows it like the beat of his heart that keeps double time with his, the constellation map of scars across veins and palms, bright blue, bright bright bright blue, eyes that stare and drip and roll up in e e e _eKstacy_.

[ _Khadgar, he says, voice broken. Khadgar. Don’t. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry._ ]

It is futility. Futility that he knows. The futility of beating his fists against a brick wall, beating in time, beating like his heart, beat, beat, beat, four four and five four and a modulation to six eight, six eight in time and holding him in time and the crashing symphony of snapping strings, slashing his wrists raw as they whip him.

As they whipped him. Held him down. Beat him.

He stares up at him, eyes the colour of the bruises on his cheeks, liquid with gold and crystal tears, like the tears in his shirt and the tears that etch themselves on his heartstrings, cutting notches, cutting deep deep deep until they break and snap and slash up his wrists. Red. Red velvet. Red velvet and white powder and lines across his arms that remain pale like the lines across the sink.

 White lines. Power lines. Power lines lead to power chords. Chords lead to song. And song.

Song leads to heartbreak.

[ _Who were they. Tell me. Tell me. I’ll find them. I’ll find them and I’ll fucking kill them._ ]

His voice breaks and his heart drops like beat poetry _beaten poetry_ and lines crack and like an electric shock runs up his veins runs up his spine runs up his brain and circulates pure light through his lungs pump through his arteries and into his eyes and skin and breath and ears and _he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe through the painted pain that muffles his heartstrings as they_

snap

snap

snap

He stalks downtown. He stalks downtown and it’s not an amplified mine but a mind that keeps him company and through his vessels. His elbow crook isn’t bruised. But _his_ face is. His face is bruised and his chest heaving with the effort of breath and hickory ribs clack clack clack while cheeks swell and red velvet crusts at the edge of a bitten mouth. There are pools of darkness where there once was pearl white, black holes edged in the red of the universe in his eyes, singularities, whole stories that no one will now know.

He holds his palms up, inky blue, darker than his eyes that darken with knowledge and what he feels is hate, not the slow burn of fire, or the biting pain of needlework, or the bitter drip that cauterises the back of his throat but the cold sear of a brand. Held down. Whipped.

[ _F. F F F FA-_ ]

Sticks. Hickory sticks that once held heartbeat but now only held the laboured cracks of struggling air. Eyes that he once drowned in now drowned with breath. Drowned with knowledge and projected hate and the quills that stuck poisonous words drip drip dripping with malice, malevolence. Round raised red menthol burns and foamy white.

And he wished, he wished for the foaming white of ocean froth, the sting of salt and salt air that whipped through his hair with gentleness the loving touch of a mother who has lost her son.

With benevolence he cries to the sky like a freed gull, wings dislocating his spine as they raised, points of hickory and bone.

Hickory and bone hung with eyes of inky blue and inky bruise. Whipped ley lines of steel and catgut and harmony and standing.

That night, he returns, bloody fisted and eye sore, breaking bone and broken bone and teeth, all black pools of darkness etched with red, soul undone, and he sits, sits by his side, hand splayed over the hateful words etched with red in his lover’s chest.

He sleeps fitfully under his hand, aged hickory and misery.

[ _But it’s okay._ ]

[ _It is okay._ ]

[ _They may have taken your light, but they will never forget your smile._ ]

And he thumbs the blade in his hands, the slick spray of red velvet as he cut that memory into them alive, alive, alive.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still dead inside
> 
> but do give both seis a listen
> 
> [THIS WAS MEANT TO BE A CHILL FIC WHAT HAPPENED]
> 
> oh and in case someone didn't understand the ending: chelsea grin


End file.
